Time wears out the key in the hole. No matter how hard, no matter who's turning it. Time is working in silence, when the town is asleep or when you're miles away with your mind. It doesn't forget, for it's always there. At work. It apparently never leaves anything undone, unaccomplished. No no. Time modifies friendships, moulds consciences and shapes skylines. In silence. At work. You weren't there when time was already there, and you weren't aware when it was no longer there.
There are just a few who can recognize its masterpieces: a worn out book, a yellowish old polaroid picture, a rock that faces the Ocean or the sign of a canvas that used to hang from a wall. Nobody lives there. But time does.
So, let's recognise it: time is the most talent-gifted, solitary and patient artist. And probably the less paid.
The next time you do something special, take your time.
There are just a few who can recognize its masterpieces: a worn out book, a yellowish old polaroid picture, a rock that faces the Ocean or the sign of a canvas that used to hang from a wall. Nobody lives there. But time does.
So, let's recognise it: time is the most talent-gifted, solitary and patient artist. And probably the less paid.
The next time you do something special, take your time.
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3 comments:
magical.
thanks also for writing in English. sounds a bit silly but is also nice to open up to another language and start to use it properly.
And I really like the topic as well. To me you were, are, and always be a goddamn writer, bro.
I'm just curious about what Time is doing to that yoghurt in my fridge. must be some kind of "performance" indeed.
better go now, Time is working his ass off without waiting for me.
ps- I've always been fascinated by the collaboration bewteen us, time and frequency.
call it also " to worn out things".
I love when things are worn out. I love the paint fading away on the neck of an old guitar, I love the chrome ripped away by the wind from a radiator grill. I love to fit with my fingers the bumps on the handle of an old walking stick.
I've been to the Nottingham Industrial Museum last saturday. many old machines and stuff. In these, quite often the worker was sitting on a naked wood bench... and he worned it out. It was easy to understand the size of the people sitting there and all.
then I thought that we actually don't have it anymore, I mean, not directly.
The left click of my mouse is slightly engraved. the space bar is starting to bend down in the middle and the word "enter" has long gone. But I usually don't look at them. the buttons I look at, the real tools, will never worn out. the Icons on my "desktop" are immortal, ethernal. they will never change. they wear me out, the screen, the keyboard, the mouse... but those buttons... those buttons will bury us all.
it's alienating, but now I understand why they are called "icons".
very beautifully written piece.
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